Letting My Thoughts Wander ...

after an unexpected prompt from an interesting source I came up with these today.

Poetry Is …

Poetry is a new dawn on an unsuspecting day,
partially full of bright lights and cherries. Poetry is a
blow out for my birthday and the living dead on sale
though peace is misunderstood. Poetry is infused with
sweetness and temper and organized for the reactive war
destined to reclaim our humanity. Poetry is
you and me and the planet and the galaxy and
the big bang and …
the end.


© Catherine Woods 2017

Poetry Was …

Those words those poets wrote, still stand

against the ages, between then and now. The meter, that they

voiced, held aloft the days of time unscripted. Above all else,

his wisdom brought forth his purpose, and, without his genius,

we could not hope to travel to ancient lands or make mysteries unfold.

Why is the purpose of one letter followed by another yet unclear?

What keeps his meaning clear for you and not for me?

Is all he said forgotten by the passages of days and hours or

are those gems of shade and colour and prose and phrase lost

in a space of ideal reverence unclaimed? Weep no more. Wish

upon a starry, starry night and see truth as beauty and beauty truth.

Inside a vision is a hidden message; 

we are all alone, within ourselves

completed.

© Catherine Woods 2017

Remembrance Day 2017

I've posted these before, but they are appropriate for today.

In Flanders

Fields, mostly green, dotted with red
As far as the eye can see
As far as a wounded man can walk in a day
Think back to days of WWI
Think back to John and his friend Alexis
Search for the patch of land when many lives were lost
Search for the memories they want to forget
Rows of crosses mark their final rest
Rows of soldiers fall, gently through the fields of grass
Hear the shots
Hear the cries
See the pain
See the futility of all this bloodshed
Of all this waste of youth
Of all this waste of generations
Fields, mostly red, remind us of the past
And pass the torch along


© Catherine Woods 2010

Aubade at Vimy

         To commemorate the 100th anniversary of the Battle on April 9, 1917

We storm the ridge at 5:30 am.

Plan and rehearse.

More than 15,000 Canadian infantry, 

four Canadian divisions, 

we attack together for the first time.

Training behind enemy lines, 

we use models to represent the battlefield.

Engineers dug deep tunnels from the rear to the front line.

Many had specialist roles as machine-gunners, 

rifle-men, and grenade-throwers.

Plan and rehearse.

Devastating artillery barrage would isolate enemy trenches.

A moving wall of high explosives and shrapnel would force the Germans 

to stay in their deep dugouts and away from their machine-guns.

Our artillery pounded the enemy positions on the ridge, 

killing and tormenting defenders this past week.

Plan and rehearse.

 

Who of us will get to go home to Saskatchewan farms and Newfoundland fisheries?

We will fight for days, weeks, if necessary.

We will fight as one unit, as one nation called Canada. 

Plan and rehearse.

We storm the ridge at 5:30 am tomorrow.

© Catherine Woods 2017

D Day

A day we must not forget

The beach was long and sandy

The troops were sitting ducks

The sky was filled with clouds

The boats kept coming

The Germans kept shooting

The Allies kept dying

We keep remembering June 6, 1944

© Catherine Woods 2017

Too Many Books, Too Little Time, Too Hard to Question, Too Easy to Forget

I can't be the only person questioning my reasons for being. It's taken me a long, long time to speak out. Even if no one answers me back, I know that I've done my part in opening the door and yelling at the top of my lungs.

38 Years of Forgetting

The Paris sun rose today

on a memory of another morning.

Mama was drinking her favourite coffee,

thick and sweet.

I was savouring my breakfast slowly

delaying the inevitable walk to classes

and bullying by the older and taller boys.

She was humming an old familiar tune,

a lullaby she used to sing to me at bedtime

when I was 5 or 6 and innocent and free.

It was the sun-sky  shades of pink and purple and

orange that drew me back to that morning

the last morning I ever saw Mama alive.

While I was at school, she died while scrubbing dishes.

While I was at school, my innocence was tossed away.

As the sun rose today,

I cry for Mama

and heal a little more.

© Catherine Woods 2017

Saturday Night Thoughts

A mash-up of thoughts on Saturday night.

I close my eyes

Words appear on this page

as if from magic or witchcraft,

but they are neither. It is only my muse

speaking out

loud and strong and clearly

making herself heard. Like a siren, she

draws me into her spell; her on the rock, solid as

diamond, whispering, weaving her words through

my mortality; me flailing about, treading water

unsuccessfully, drowning in visions of

chaos and wonder.  Then I awaken to

books, papers, and abstracts, knowing I’m concrete and

sentient and safe in reality,

until the next time that I close my eyes.

© Catherine Woods 2017

I am not to blame 

You are still here

sleeping in the bed I bought you years ago

watching NetFlix’s movies I play for.

Baking and

pulling weeds:

when will you go? Not that I’m throwing you out,

but I should. I should move

all your things onto the driveway. I should change

the locks. But I can’t.

Maybe I am to blame (a little).

I should have pushed you at 20, at 23, at 25.

I didn’t because I wanted you safe.

I understand now I’ve done you a terrible disservice by

not making you go.

Ok I’m to blame. I’m a terrible mother.

Hanging on when I shouldn’t,

not charging you room and board,

making it much too easy for you to stay.

But no no NO NO NO

I am not to blame,

maybe no one is,

but things have definitely got to change.

© Catherine Woods 2017

Circle 

Leaves,

haphazardly crisp on the city sidewalk,

fortell the fated future

of our lives. Death is inevitable,

change is inevitable,

renewal is inevitable. What today is organic litter

will in six months be fuel for

Spring’s rebirth.

© Catherine Woods 2017

I was born

I was born in Montreal

on a rainy Wednesday. My father was out of town.

I went to 13 elementary schools

in 13 years. My father changed jobs more often

than he took me to Dairy Queen.

I left home to go to university. My father wanted me to become

a doctor; I didn’t. I started

to spill my emotions on the page.

I started to feel like a human being

for the first time in my life.

I was born in Kingston,

alone and afraid and

ready to live

as someone important.

© Catherine Woods 2017

I didn't win and why it does not deter me

I entered another contest and did not win. I wasn't even an honourable mention.

It used to hurt. It doesn't any more. Now it makes me want to write more, to put more of myself out there.

Why I Write

For Snoopy, the author

It was a dark and stormy night.
The words are crisp and clear, but I am afraid
of where they lead and what they do not
say about reality. They show no sense of location or
circumstance. What they offer is vague and open.
Their position in this world is hidden by their
randomness; a cat says more by sauntering
through a doorway.

Suddenly, a shot rang out!
Mistakenly, a life was taken. Thoughtlessly,
my mind wandered into itself. Truthfully,
I say what must be said.

A door slammed.
A car crashed. A bird flew into an airplane’s engine and
the story took a turn for the worst.

The maid screamed.
I opened my eyes to the truth.

Suddenly, a pirate ship appears on the horizon!
Words leave clues to the path to follow,
to the destination of the story, and the moral
the author puts out for our education. To read is
to learn is to gain the answer to our abundance of questions,
even those we do not know we need to ask until,
too late, we call out for attention, and
receive only silence.

Why do I write? To see what words appear next
on this page, and to know
I put them there.

© Catherine Woods 2017

*Certain italicized words are from Charles Schulz, circa 1971.

I close my eyes

Words appear on this page

as if from magic or witchcraft,

but they are neither. It is only my muse 

speaking out 

loud and strong and clearly

making herself heard. Like a siren, she

draws me into her spell; her on the rock, solid as

diamond, whispering, weaving her words through

my mortality; me flailing about, treading water

unsuccessfully, drowning in visions of

chaos and wonder.  Then I awaken to

books, papers, and abstracts, knowing I’m concrete and

sentient and safe in reality,

until the next time that I close my eyes.

© Catherine Woods 2017

The country weeps for a loss expected but not welcomed

I woke to this news and am still can't accept it. We will mourn his passing for a long time.

Our Country Wept, Completely

On a sandy beach in the Kawartha Lakes,
driving down a lonely Prairie road,
as certain coastal cities are slowly sinking,
our country wept.

As the Maple Leafs return to glory,
while we reconcile our ancient prejudices, and
accept our own mortality,
our country wept.

In the Coke Machine Glow
of a movie shot out at the speedway
where fire works its magic spell,
our country wept

for Gord.

© Catherine Woods 2017

A series of thoughts

Confrontation always brings out my muse. For good or bad, it's a statement of what is going on in my head. And it needs to come out.

Listening to my Inner Voice

No one is listening
as I scream
inside my head.
There is a space
opening a door,
ushering me into
a new room,
full of questions,
full of answers;
now to match them up
and leave no
stones unturned,
no worries unanswered.
White is black.
and grey is unexpected.

© Catherine Woods 2017

Unreasonable Blindness 

Blindness of people seeing only their 

reality. A freshly mowed lawn, a warm sunny day, 

children playing in the park.

Not witnessing the real reality of hundreds 

of innocents dying because 

they are black or Muslim 

because hurricanes destroyed their homes 

because someone feels threatened by their mere existence.

Only if and when their reality is affected 

do they notice that somewhere has changed

 in their neighbourhood or their home 

or their own family 

or their own child.

Only then do they scream.

But by then it's too late to fix their reality and

they are lost.

© Catherine Woods 2017

Serious Moonlight

Where do I start the tale?

With old words from before 

Or new words recently put down to paper?

To bare myself for others to read aloud

Or to continue to hide among the masses?

To stop the muse, to shut her out completely?

NO! It is time to shout

To open my mouth and utter phrases, to cast them 

Into the air and onto the page

To speak, perhaps to cry,

To shout and break all windows keeping me inside.

So I begin …

Once upon a time 

A lovely, lonely little child was born to parents

Who didn’t understand and tried to hide her talents in the mundane.

She fell asleep and drifted on for years and years

Except for staccato breaths of creativity

Until she realized that 

Words have power

Ideas have merit

And time passes by without

Happiness

Unless you grab the moon and fly.

© Catherine Woods 2016